Three Years
by brealeylou
Summary: Post-Reichenbach one shot. Johnlock. I couldn't decide on an angsty ending or a happy ending, so I wrote both. READ THIS:  Chapter two is angsty, chapter three is happy. Both pick up exactly where the first part leaves off. Read and review, please?
1. Three Years

Sherlock Holmes was scared. More scared than he had been for years. As he stood on the roof of St. Bart's looking down at his best friend, he thought to himself, "John will never forgive me." He stepped closer to the edge and spread his arms.

John Watson spent every day the same way: first, he woke up and stared at the ceiling in his bedroom for a while. He got up and made himself tea-Sherlock's favorite brew. He watched the crap telly shows that Sherlock hated but sometimes would watch with John anyway. He ate lunch at Speedy's at the same table he would eat at with Sherlock. He brought the same flowers to Sherlock's lonely grave every night and sit with him. He would have pretended to tell Sherlock about his life since Sherlock's... fall... but he would tell the same story every day because he hadn't a clue what to do with himself. John did this every day for three years.

One day, in late December, John was walking toward the grave as he always did, but he was stopped in his tracks. He squinted to see the grave more clearly through the snow.

In front of the stone there was a letter. He made is way over to the grave and picked it up. It was addressed to him. John carefully ripped it open and took out the paper inside. It read:

John,

Happy Christmas. I'm sorry.

SH

The letter dropped from John's trembling hands as he staggered backwards. He let himself fall back into the snow. His mind raced.

_SH._

"S. H," he whispered to himself. _It couldn't be. It's impossible. He's... dead. _John gulped. "Sherlock..."

Sherlock watched his friend run his unsteady fingers through his hair and shake his head, muttering to himself worriedly. Seeing John so confused and upset brought a single tear to his eyes. Surely Mycroft would kill him for this, but it didn't matter to Sherlock-not anymore. It had been far too long since he had been able to talk to John, to see him, to... touch him.

John's head started to rise as he looked around the cemetery. Sherlock crouched and hid in the bushed just in time not to be seen.

John woke from his sleep and looked drowsily at his clock. 4:00 AM.

_Bump._

John's head snapped to the right and his eyes fell on the bedroom door. It opened slowly to reveal a man with a long trenchcoat, and dark blue scarf partially hidden by his turned up collar, and messy, dark curls covering his head. He was the one man John was never supposed to see again. Ever. But he was also the one man John had been hoping, wishing, _dying_ to see again.

"John."

The familiarly deep voice sent shivers up John's spine.

"John, come here. Please."

John obeyed. He sat up in his bed and swung his legs off the side. They shook as he tried to steady himself. His feet dragged along the floor as he made his way over the Sherlock. He stopped directly in front of him and kept his head lowered.

"John, I-" Sherlock was about to apologize for everything, for leaving John, but John had cut him off. He had looked up into Sherlock's eyes and cupped Sherlock's face in his hands. John gently pulled him in closer and let his lips touch Sherlock's.

The kiss lasted for what seemed like a lifetime to John. Their lips parted for a moment, so John filled the silence: "I love you, Sherlock."

While the kiss was most unexpected, Sherlock knew he felt the same way. "I love you too, John."

Sherlock watched as John fell back asleep, then snuck out when he got a text from Mycroft.

"Well, Sherlock, I guess now that he's seen you, you may as well go back to living at 221B Baker Street with Doctor Watson," Mycroft informed Sherlock. It was now 8:30 in the morning. Sherlock couldn't help but grin as he stood up and ran back to his flat. He got to the door and burst through it, flying up the stairs, not stopping until he reached John's bedroom door


	2. ANGST

There was a note attatched to it. It read:

_To whoever finds this,_

_I saw Sherlock Holmes last night. I thought it was really him, but he was gone when I woke up. Clearly, I've lost it. I can't handle being without him any longer. I-_

Sherlock stopped reading and shoved the door open.

John was laying on the bed, still as a rock. In his hand was the gun he had always kept hidden in his desk; in his head, a single bullet hole. He was looking up at the ceiling like he had done every other morning, only this time, he couldn't see it.

"John... No...


	3. HAPPY

"John!" Sherlock yelled.

"Sherlock?" John opened the door to see Sherlock panting heavily.

"Is it... really you?"

"It's really me, John," Sherlock sighed.

John smilled weakly.

They kissed, and everything was okay again. John pulled Sherlock closer and wrapped his arms around him, burying his face in his friend's chest.

"I love you."

"I love you too.


End file.
